


Wet & Willing

by venvephe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 21:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2041278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venvephe/pseuds/venvephe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What would the world be, once bereft of wet and wildness?"</p><p>Gratuitous rimming for Come-At-Once Round 4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wet & Willing

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd and un-Britpicked. Shameless, shameless rimming. You've been warned.

John loves all of this: the little exhale Sherlock makes when his mind latches together the right clues; the spark of adrenaline it inspires, the burn in his lungs and thighs from the inevitable chase. He loves the wild tangle of Sherlock’s hair in front of him as they run, the sweat clinging to his lower back as they push forward, darting over skips and across narrow streets. They apprehend the arsonist, of course they do; the thrill of success is bright in their veins even in the dim lamplight, and lingers as they clamber into a cab and drive away.

 

John loves this, too; there is a visible rhythm in the fidgeting of Sherlock’s fingers, in the way he squirms against the cab’s leather seats. He can’t sit still, keeps stealing glances at John in the window’s reflection, eyes bright. His knuckles stand out white against his skin when his fingers clench the fabric of his trousers.

 

They make it as far as their own hallway.

 

Sherlock pins John, cages him in with his forearms and presses forwards with all of his weight. He’s burning underneath the layers of suit and coat and scarf, hot to the touch except for where he was exposed to the London chill. The difference is erotic, cool nose but oh-so-warm hands that tilt his face up to meet Sherlock’s lips. They kiss with all of the adrenaline they didn’t sweat out, with an edge of teeth and spit-slick-sloppy.

 

They pull apart to gulp in air; Sherlock tears at the collar of John’s jacket, mouthing a wet line up his neck to his jaw. John lets out a groan that gets caught in his throat, and fists his hands in Sherlock’s lapels to pull him up for another kiss. It’s messy and perfect, the release of tension and arousal like a coiled spring, heady and feverish as they breathe each other’s air.

 

“Surprised you made it up the stairs,” John says between kisses, when his tongue isn’t curled around Sherlock’s. Every kiss is a wet smack in the quiet of their flat, lusciously slick. “Thought you might get in trouble in that cab, with the looks you were giving me.”

 

Sherlock just hums against his skin, licks against his pulse point in reply. When he meets John’s eyes again he’s flushed a pretty pink, and his pupils are blown wide in the half-darkness.

 

“Well,” he says, “there’s something to be said for delayed gratification.”

 

John raises his eyebrows and can’t help but grin in return, pushing away from the wall to shed his jacket. “Been waiting long enough tonight, though, haven’t we?”

 

John crowds against him and slots his thigh between Sherlock's, rocking upwards with the movement. Sherlock groans, pushing into the movement and letting his knees fall apart, bracing back against the wall. Looks like they won't be moving to the bedroom tonight, John thinks. There's no way either of them would make it there.

 

He peppers kisses along Sherlock's skin, nibbling the freckles he comes across and haphazardly tugging and unbuttoning as he goes. Sherlock clings to him, fingers bruise-tight on his hips, flexing each time John sucks on his exposed skin.

 

John’s fingers are a little clumsy with anticipation, but finally he parts Sherlock’s shirt and flicks one of his nipples with his tongue. Sherlock jerks, bodily, teases his fingers into John’s short hair and tugs. The sensation makes John moan into Sherlock’s skin, spreading kisses lower as he sinks to his knees. He noses at the dark trail of hair leading into Sherlock’s trousers, inhales the musk of sweat and sex gathering there.

 

“Let me?” John asks, looking up at Sherlock. His thumbs rub small circles into the bones of Sherlock’s hips, anchoring them both. It doesn’t seem possible, but Sherlock reddens further.

 

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, “you know that it’s-”

 

“Dirty, yes,” John grins, “That’s part of the appeal of it, that it’s dirty.”

 

“Unsanitary,” Sherlock corrects, “We’ve been running around London all night - look at both of us, practically drenched in sweat-”

 

“You’re not saying anything I don’t already know, Sherlock. Or anything that turns me off - it’s something I want to do for you.” John presses another kiss to Sherlock’s belly, and smiles up at him. “But I want you to want it, too.”

 

Sherlock huffs. “If you’re that determined to give me the experience-”

 

“Sherlock,” John admonishes.

 

“Yes, all right,” Sherlock nods, and scratches his fingers through John’s hair again. John turns when Sherlock’s hand cups his jaw and kisses along his palm. “I didn’t mean dirty in the good way.”

 

“Well, I did,” John smirks, “It may be dirty work, but giving you the best orgasm of your life by rimming - someone’s got to do it. There’s no way that someone is going to be anyone but me.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Indeed.”

 

John unfastens Sherlock’s trousers, easing them over the bulge straining the front and down past his hips. The pants quickly follow suit. “Turn around,” John murmurs.

 

Sherlock is a little unsteady on his feet, a departure from his usual grace; with his trousers around his ankles and his muscles likely as sore as John’s from all the running, his thighs nearly tremble as he faces the wall. John places a steadying hand on his lower back, pushing until Sherlock leans forward, cushioning his head with arms bent against the wall for support.

 

With Sherlock comfortable, John can lean back and admire him.

 

He can’t help it; he has a visceral, Pavlovian response to the detective. His erection, which had flagged over the course of their discussion, throbbed again at seeing Shelrock’s pale arse on display. He’s all lean muscle, the damp sheen of sweat darkening the nape of his curls and dewing the hollow of his lower back. He’s spread, broad and tall, in the half-light for only John to see; the thought and image he makes sets John’s pulse racing.

 

John reaches out, caresses a series of long lines from as high as he can reach on Sherlock’s back down to his thighs, smoothing along the damp skin. He strokes upwards, letting his fingers dig a little into the firm muscle, feeling the weight and heat of Sherlock’s legs, his hips, before settling comfortably on his arse. It makes for two neat, full handfulls in John’s palms, and he squeezes them gently when he leans in to lick away the sweat along Sherlock’s spine. Sherlock sighs, and settles more solidly against the wall.

 

It’s with building excitement that John pulls at the cheeks of Sherlock’s arse, exposing the delicate pink of his hole to John’s eyes. The sight sends another shock of arousal into his veins, and he leans in to breathe deep. It’s part of the anticipation; Sherlock can feel him exhale - John can tell from the way he subtly squirms - but can’t see exactly what he’s doing.

 

John wets his lips, then licks a broad stripe up the crack of Sherlock’s arse.

 

Sherlock’s breath hitches, and his legs slide further apart. John grins.

 

He licks again, following the same route, then down again, lingering on the ring of muscle as he goes. He caresses with his lips as well as his tongue, darting in to lap at his hole until Sherlock writhes, then pulling away to leave a string of kisses on the swell of Sherlock’s arse. He’s spit-slick in minutes, moaning at the feeling of John’s tongue against him.

 

For his part, John couldn’t imagine being anywhere else; his chin is shiny with spit, as Sherlock’s so wet that he’s dripping a clear stream down the inside of his own thigh. Sherlock keeps making delicious, keening moans every time John passes his tongue over his hole, which flutters helplessly under John’s assault. He laves over it, stiffens his tongue to press inwards, flicking wet and hot until Sherlock is calling his name. John pulls away only to wet a finger, playing with the sensitive skin, pushing deeper as he continues to lick and suck at the rim of Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock is hot against his mouth, dripping and squirming and groaning, and John can’t wait to make him come like this - spread and wet, mindless with pleasure from John’s ministrations.

 

Sherlock’s cock is nearly as wet as his arse when John finally puts a hand around it - the head is fully exposed and dribbling thick beads of precome, which John spreads in a few easy strokes. It’s a warm weight in his palm, and once he gets a good rhythm going, he moves his mouth back to Sherlock’s hole.

 

“John,” Sherlock moans, nearly clawing at the wall to keep upright. “John!”

 

John can feel it coming from how Sherlock’s hole begins to spasm, and his hips - which have been rocking steadily into the strokes of John’s tongue - stutter and falter in their beat. It’s like an electric current runs between Sherlock’s cock and his arse; he twitches and groans deep in his chest, writing back against John and coming in hot spurts in John’s fist, unable to control his movements or the tremble in his voice. The muscles of his stomach jump in time with the final dribbles of come that leak from his still-hard cock, and his breath hitches each time.

 

John carefully extracts his come-covered hand from around Sherlock’s cock and eases away from his arse, nudging him to turn and lean back against the wall instead of forward and into it, pliant and loose-limbed  with the after-effects of orgasm.

 

“Good?” John asks smugly, placing a smacking kiss on Sherlock’s cheek and nibbling at his ear. From the deep, wordless hum he gets in reply, John takes it as a yes. He can’t help it, though; he ruts a little against Sherlock’s hip, still flushed with arousal and the heady sensation of getting Sherlock off.

 

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock says a moment later, languid and deep, “Give me a moment to find my legs again and I’ll return the favor.”

 

“Return the favor, will you,” John smiles, cradling Sherlock closer and stroking up and down his sweat-cooled arms.

 

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock says, cracking an eye open to look at John, “Preferably on a horizontal surface, though.”

  
  



End file.
